


keep me in your clouded mind

by LuthienKenobi



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Rewrite, Episode: s06e09 Memory Found, F/M, Gen, Good Alpha Scott McCall (Teen Wolf), Hypnotism, Memory Loss, Scott McCall & Stiles Stilinski Friendship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-09
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-15 18:28:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29937594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LuthienKenobi/pseuds/LuthienKenobi
Summary: It’s just a proof of concept, this plan of theirs, but right now it feels like everything. That after countless losses—losses that feel like limb after limb torn off of his body—saving even one person is important.It might even be the key to saving everyone.(or, a reimagining of the 'remembering Stiles' scene, rendered in three parts)
Relationships: Lydia Martin & Scott McCall, Lydia Martin/Stiles Stilinski, Scott McCall & Malia Tate, Scott McCall & Stiles Stilinski, Stiles Stilinski & Malia Tate
Comments: 3
Kudos: 21





	keep me in your clouded mind

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Teen Wolf Legacy's Top Dogs Week, Day 2—Canon Fix-It.
> 
> Thanks to [momentofmemory](https://archiveofourown.org/users/momentofmemory/pseuds/momentofmemory) for both the beta and the boundless enthusiasm!

The ghost town known as Beacon Hills lies silent and empty.

Liam and Theo can only keep the Riders at bay for so long—only buy them a short amount of time—before they’re taken as well. Or killed, as the entities seem increasingly uninterested in simply stealing people away.

Scott isn’t sure why their methods seemed to have shifted so drastically. It’s important, probably—might even be the key finally understanding what it is they really want—but there’s other concerns right now. Concerns that, if left for too long, will simply disappear, as if they never existed at all.

It’s this thought that fills him with the most dread. He doesn’t want to forget anyone else, especially doesn’t want to forget Liam, his only bitten beta—

He pauses.

The thought doesn’t sit right, doesn’t _feel_ right, but he can’t quite put his finger on why.

He focuses, turning it over in his mind, until recognizes the feeling as the same empty, cavernous ache that he’s grown to associate with the absence of people he doesn’t remember. 

It’s wrong, and every instinct he has is telling him that he needs to fix it. But how is he supposed to save anyone when he doesn’t even know their names?

Which is exactly why he, Lydia, and Malia are here, below the city: if something can be remembered, then it can come back. And it’s just a proof of concept, this plan of theirs, but right now it feels like everything. That after countless losses—losses that feel like limb after limb torn off of his body—saving even one person is important.

It might even be the key to everything. 

They’re deep in the Argent bunker now, and they’ve locked and barricaded the door, but Scott isn’t under any illusions that locks will do any good once the Riders decide to come for them in earnest. 

They all stare at each other for a moment, and no one seems entirely sure what to do next.

Malia speaks up first. “So now what?”

Scott takes a steadying breath. “Now we bring Stiles back.”

“And how the hell are we supposed to do that?”

Lydia fishes a folded piece of paper out of her jacket pocket and holds it up for them to see. She looks determined now, and more hopeful than he’s seen her in weeks. “If I’m right, we use hypnosis.”

Malia still looks skeptical, so Lydia explains further. “When I remember him—when I try to remember him—I feel like I’m so close. That the memories are right there, like a word that’s on the tip of your tongue, but you just can’t get it out.”

It’s a familiar sensation, these days—the feeling of a gaping hole where a memory should be, but that on further investigation doesn’t contain anything of substance. The sort of feeling that leaves him chasing after people and shadows that at the end of the day are just—

A different memory surfaces.

 _Ephemeral_. 

Thoughtfully, he traces the lines of his tattoo: two bands, solid and lasting. Real. Literally seared into his flesh. They meant something back then, something important, and while that meaning has shifted and changed over the years, it hasn’t lessened.

He feels the ghost of remembered pressure on his shoulders, but that isn’t right, because it was just him and Derek that day. He went alone.

He isn’t sure why he would do that. 

He pulls himself back to the present, as Malia and Lydia are still talking. Malia remains unconvinced. “But how exactly is hypnosis going to get your memories back?”

Scott answers this one. “Like with Isaac.”

Lydia nods. “When the Alpha pack stole his memories, they weren’t actually gone—Deaton was able to recover them by inducing a trance-like state.”

“Yeah, by using an ice bath to slow his heart rate by… a lot. It’s too dangerous to try something like that with you.”

She takes a breath. “And that’s why I’m hoping good old fashioned hypnotherapy will do the trick.”

Malia interjects. “Last I checked, none of us are hypnotherapists.”

“No, but I did see one for about a month, a couple years back. Mom thought it might help me with my ‘issues.’” She puts the word in quotes, but just avoids rolling her eyes.

“Did it work?”

“Not exactly.” Lydia sighs, and Scott catches the echo of an old pain in her scent and bearing. “It turns out I have an aversion to other people inside my head.”

A pang of sympathy jolts through him. After everything Lydia’s been put through over the years, all the ways her mind has been violated by Peter, by Theo, and by Valack—

It’s no wonder she guards her mind and her thoughts so closely.

“Lydia, you know you don’t have to do this, right?”

She shakes her head. “Except I do. The Wild Hunt messed our heads, with all of our heads—erasing memories, replacing them with something else… I remember things that I know aren’t true. That literally _can’t_ be true. And I am tired of my mind being toyed with and sifted through and rewritten.” 

Malia looks like she suddenly understands. “Someone ripped your control away, and you want it back.”

Lydia nods, and for a moment no one says anything. Then she clears her throat and unfolds the piece of paper in her hand, passing it to Scott. “It’s an induction script. Not word for word what my therapist used, but it should be close enough.”

Scott scans the words on the page: they seem stiff to him—overly formal and unnatural—but maybe the rhythm of the words is important. He glances back up at her, uneasy. “Lydia, if this is what your hypnotherapist used, and it never worked on you… Are you sure it’ll work this time?”

“It’ll work!” she snaps, then takes a short, shallow breath. “Scott, it has to.”

The past few years have taught him to trust Lydia where these things are concerned, so the answer is obvious.

“Okay, let’s do this.”

The bunker is fairly sparse in the way of furniture, but there’s a small metal table and chairs at one end. Lydia crosses over to it, smoothing down her dress before taking a seat. She folds her hands together on top of the table, a perfect picture of confidence that he’s sure he would’ve believed if not for the faint scent of apprehension following her.

He moves to stand across from her, on the other side of the table, and she stiffens as he approaches.

“You can start reading anytime now.” She closes her eyes without waiting for a response.

Scott glances over at Malia, who’s leaning against a cabinet—he hopes he doesn’t look as worried as she does, but that seems unlikely. 

He takes a deep breath and starts reading.

Like everything that Lydia creates, the induction script is nearly perfect, and he marvels at the fact that she even had time to write it. In short, repetitive, and rhythmic sentences, it instructs the listener to visualize a staircase, at the end of which is total and complete relaxation. With each identical step that she takes, that he guides her down, she’s supposed to become more relaxed, until—

“It’s not working.”

Lydia’s tense. Her eyes are still closed, but her jaw is tight and her teeth gritted, like she’s trying to enter a hypnotic trance through sheer force of will. The apprehension gathered around her has turned to frustration, of the sort that he recognizes from the many times he’s seen her try to force herself into having a vision.

Her hands remain folded on the table, but they’re clenched together and ever so slightly trembling.

He places the paper to the side and slips into the chair across from her, covering her hands with his.

She jolts almost imperceptibly at the sudden contact, but her fingers relax slightly. Her eyes are closed, but he searches her face all the same. “Lydia, you can do this, okay? I know you can.”

She shakes her head. “No, I can’t. I can’t remember him, can’t even remember what his face looks like, and there’s no time—”

“It’s okay. Lydia, it’s okay.” He pauses briefly and collects his thoughts, then continues speaking, low and quiet, hoping to give her something else to focus on. “We’re safe here, and we have time. All you have to do is relax.”

Another headshake, but this one is slower, more hesitant. “I don’t think I know how to do that.”

“I know. I want you to take a deep breath for me, okay?”

She only hesitates briefly before answering. “Yeah, okay.”

“We’ll take it together.”

“Okay.”

“Ready?” She nods, and they breathe together, slowly, in and out.

Inhale. 

Exhale.

And repeat.

He listens as she matches her breathing to his—awkwardly at first, then naturally as she falls into the rhythm. Minutes pass, and gradually, her heartbeat slows as well, settling into a more steady pace. The frustration and anxiety also begin to ebb, though they don’t fade entirely.

A memory that isn’t a memory—he can’t place it, can’t define its edges in his mind—surfaces, and he has an idea.

He speaks quietly, careful not to startle her. “Lydia, I want you to count with me. Can you do that? We’ll keep breathing, and count on the exhale. All you have to do is focus on breathing, and the numbers.”

She nods, and they begin. Deep breath in, deep breath out. One.

Two.

Three.

Scott keeps his voice level throughout, but Lydia’s begins to trail off. Her voice gradually grows fainter with each number, fading along with the last remnants of her fear, and he’s suddenly proud of her. He may have given her something to focus on, but she chose to open herself up like this, to allow herself to be vulnerable.

He knows how difficult that is for her, and how many people have attempted to take advantage of her mind in the past. He’s grateful for her trust. 

By the time they reach ten, he’s the only one speaking, and Lydia is quiet and calm. Behind her, Malia straightens up in surprise. “Did it work? Is she under?”

He makes a quick hushing motion in Malia’s direction, suddenly afraid that any unexpected noise or movement might rouse Lydia from the trance. His eyes don’t leave her face.

When she doesn’t stir, he takes a chance and speaks softly. “Lydia, can you hear me?”

She tilts her head slowly, as if listening from very far away. “I can hear you.”

He exchanges a quick, excited glance with Malia, because this means there’s still a chance for this to work. If she can remember Stiles, she can bring him back, and then all this sacrifice and loss—the gaping ache of every pack member he doesn’t remember losing—it won’t be for nothing.

Bring Stiles back. Bring everyone back.

Malia’s voice—half-spoken and half-whispered, but still surprisingly loud—pulls him back to the present. “Well, ask her something. Get her to remember.”

He refocuses on Lydia, suddenly unsure of what exactly he’s supposed to do. When Deaton was guiding Isaac through remembering, he had a direction, a specific memory that they were trying to recover. With this, Scott has no idea where to begin.

He supposes there’s nothing to do but try.

“Lydia, there’s someone I want you to remember for me. Someone you’ve forgotten.”

She scoffs. “I don’t forget things.”

“You’ve forgotten _him_.” Her brow furrows, but she doesn’t respond, so he continues. “His name is Stiles.”

“Stiles…” She says the name slowly, as if she’s testing the shape of it in her mouth. “Stiles Stilinski.”

“Yes!” A surge of hope rises up in his chest, and he fights to keep his voice level. “Yeah, that’s it. You know him?”

Her eyes squint and tighten, and a look that he would generally describe as worry or fear passes over her face. “I don’t… It’s important. I have to remember.” Her emotional state shifts as well, the fear returning to color her previous calm.

He closes his own eyes briefly in defeat, because of course it wouldn’t be that simple. Careful not to betray any disappointment in his tone, he continues. “It’s okay. You’re okay. You’re doing great.” He brushes his thumb gently over her knuckles, waiting for her heart rate and chemosignals to return to some sort of baseline.

As he focuses on the fading, acrid tang of her anxiety, he has an idea. “Lydia, can you tell me what you feel when you think about Stiles? What emotion?”

“Stiles…” A small smile plays at her lips. “Fondness. Frustration…” She tilts her head again, and the barest edge of her anxiety returns. “...Fear.”

She says the word with a finality, and Scott latches on to it. “Fear—you’re afraid? Of Stiles?”

Lydia shakes her head, emphatic and sure.

“Someone else, then? Who is it?”

“Remember.” She says it like a mantra. “It’s important, I have to remember.”

“Okay, it’s okay.” There’s something here, something with this memory, and he casts about for some new method of approaching it. “Lydia, when you’re with Stiles and you feel that fear, what do you see? Where are you?”

“The jeep.”

“The blue one? Stiles’ jeep?”

She nods, and he doesn’t try to stop the smile that splits across his face. “Good! That’s good. What else do you see?”

“It’s dark. We’re in the school parking lot. He’s… His hands are shaking.”

“Stiles— he’s scared, too?”

Another nod.

“Who’s he scared of?”

Her agitation spikes, tension shooting through her body, and she grabs at his hand. “No, they’re coming, they’re going to take him!”

“It’s okay, you’re safe, they can’t hurt you here.” He adjusts his grip, so he’s holding her hand tightly in his. “Lydia, who’s coming to take Stiles? Is it the Ghost Riders?”

She shakes her head, and while her heart rate plateaus, it doesn’t decrease. “I don’t— I can’t—”

“You can’t see them.”

“No, it’s just dark, I—”

“But Stiles can.”

She doesn’t answer directly. “Remember. It’s important, he said— He says. He says I have to remember.”

“What is he saying? What does Stiles want you to remember?”

“He’s saying— he’s saying remember…”

Her heart rate rises sharply, and he starts to worry that the trance could break at any moment.

“ _Remember, I love you_.”

Lydia’s eyes fly open, and Scott feels a deep pang of sympathy and guilt when he sees they’re filled with tears.

“Oh god, Scott, I remember. I remember everything.”

He’s out of his chair and crossing to her side of the table in an instant, and he pulls her into a hug.

**Author's Note:**

> This fic turned out to be more about everyone's relationships with each other, and as such deserved more attention than I would be able to give it with the time I had available for this one — the remaining chapters will cover Malia and Scott's attempts to recover their memories.
> 
> Both fic and chapter titles are from "We Sink" by Of Monsters and Men.
> 
> Thanks for reading, and feel free to come scream at me on [tumblr](https://daughterofluthien.tumblr.com/)!


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